


Giving is the True Gift

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:17:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9081970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Hutch and Starsky volunteer at a free dining room for Christmas.





	

Giving is the True Gift  
By Dawnwind

Hutch scooped up a serving of mashed potatoes and placed it next to the slice of turkey swimming in gravy. He estimated he’d done this now two, if not three, dozen times in the last hour. His new found practice to negate the holiday anti-euphoric sentimentalism that frequently hit him in December: helping to feed the poor at the 99th Street Dining Room. 

The next tray slid to his station and Hutch dished up another helping of mashed potatoes and turkey, pausing to smile at a young man with dark brown eyes. The man was dressed in dirty, well-worn fatigues. He gazed longingly at the meal, clearly hungry.

“Have a merry Christmas,” Hutch said sincerely. This was why giving was important. Helping another somehow raised his own spirits.

“Thank you,” the young man answered before moving his tray to the next volunteer who was handing out dessert.

“This pie is terrific!” Starsky assured the man with a wink. “You want whipped cream with that?”

“Pie is enough,” the man said shyly, glancing back at the line of people waiting behind him. “It’s more than—“

“Have another piece!” Starsky held up a plate in each hand, apple pie on the left and pumpkin on the right. “For later—which do you like better?”

“Apple.” The man pointed with a sudden smile that did wonders to his narrow, pale face. “Like my mom used to make.”

“The guy dressed like Santa has a gift for you and some cookies, too,” Starsky confided as if he hadn’t said this several hundred times already that day.

The man walked over to the tables, and Hutch dished up more potatoes and turkey. Starsky handed out more pie, cajoling the hungry people to take another piece or an extra dollop of whipped cream. Anything to chase the hopelessness out of their eyes for one moment. 

“Gentlemen, thank you so much for staying an extra half hour.” Caroline Hampton, manager of 99th Street Free Dining Room, said at 2:30, giving Hutch a pat on the shoulder and extending a hand to Starsky. “The Bay City Girl Scout Troop finally made it here; their leader’s car had a flat. You’re relieved.”

Two girls dressed in familiar green uniforms grinned enthusiastically at Starsky and Hutch. Both were 16 or 17. Hutch had the uncomfortable feeling that if he stayed any longer, the redhead on the left would start flirting. He might be between lady friends currently, but a girl still in high school, no matter how pretty, was off limits.

“She liked you.” Starsky winked when they’d removed their hairnets and plastic gloves and collected their jackets to leave. 

“The girl scout?” Hutch asked, horrified. 

“No, Ms. Hampton.” Starsky raised his eyebrows in a vague Groucho Marx leer, but it seemed forced. 

“She’s married, Starsk,” Hutch said, hunching his shoulders against the drizzly rain. 

“No wedding ring.” Starsky fished out the keys to the Torino and they both scrambled inside the car. The windshield wipers swiped lazily across the glass with a scraping sound.

“Would you wear a wedding ring while dishing out food all day?” Hutch glanced at his friend, well aware there was something bothering Starsky, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. Starsky had been uncharacteristically quiet, his banter with the Dining Room's guests less boisterous toward the end of their shift. 

He and Starsky had had a great day so far. They’d met for coffee and breakfast at a diner near 99th Street so Starsky could load up on donuts decorated with candy cane striped icing before serving Christmas Eve lunch. Sure, Starsky had given all the usual protests about using up a perfectly good day off in the service of charity, but his eyes had twinkled with delight when he and Hutch started handing out food. That light had faded to troubled sadness as the shift wore on.

Starsky steered the gaudy car through the wet streets, past Christmas trimmings adorning every store. He didn’t ooh and ah with glee at every one the way he had for the last month and a half when they’d driven by the same decorations. Hutch had to probe or he’d be worried for the rest of the evening.

“Something on your mind, buddy?” 

“Huh?” Starsky inhaled so fast he choked and coughed through the red light. “What’re you talking about?”

Giving him a helpful pound on the back, Hutch could feel Starsky’s heart racing completely out of proportion to the situation. “You’re scared?” he probed gently.

“Nah.” Starsky shrugged self consciously, pulling the car onto the 110 freeway. “I just—kinda had some... memories, I guess you’d call ‘em, when we were at the Dining Room.”

“You’ve helped out there before?” 

“Not helped.” 

Starsky didn’t say anything more, and Hutch let him concentrate on driving. The pavement was slick with rain. With the Christmas shopping season about to expire, and people hurrying home for the holiday, there were far too many cars on the road. Not that that was unusual any day of the week in Bay City. 

It was also obvious that Starsky had more to say. Hutch could almost see the little hamsters in his brain scurrying madly about, working out how much to reveal and what to keep back. 

This was something personal.

Starsky was maneuvering the heavy car onto the off-ramp for Venice when he finally spoke. “I’d eaten there, at 99th, a long time ago.”

Damn. Hutch couldn’t come up with anything constructive or even half-way supportive to say. “When?”

“After I came back.” Starsky turned the car left then right in the direction of Hutch’s apartment building. “From Viet Nam.”

Hutch had worked that much out for himself. He’d known that Starsky had a difficult time assimilating back to civilian life, but hadn’t realized it had been that bad. “Was the food good?” he asked, which sounded lame even to his own ears. What could he say? Sorry? It had happened ten years ago.

“Not sure I even cared.” Starsky stopped in front of Venice Place, looking up at Hutch’s building instead of at Hutch. “I was all mixed up inside. Like life was choking me and I couldn’t get a breath. I needed a job, ‘cause the room I was renting was eating up all the money I had…” He clasped his hands together, fingers knotted. “At first, it was food just so I could get by, and then…”

Hutch put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, feeling the tension begin to drain away simply from his touch. Or was it being able to talk about that time after so long? 

“I started to make friends.” Starsky smiled shyly. “Ms. Hampton wasn’t there back then.”

“Didn’t think so; she’d have been about twelve,” Hutch teased gently and was rewarded with an attempt at a laugh. 

“Sixteen,” Starsky countered as expected. “Old Man Penworthy ran the place. Looked like a grizzled old scarecrow, but he’d been on Normandy Beach in ‘44. It was like he knew exactly when to spoon a slop of mashed potatoes and gravy on your plate and when to sit down and talk for a minute. Sometimes he’d slip a banana or an apple into my pocket.” 

“A good guy.”

“Yeah.” Starsky cocked his head, clearly half in the past. “I was kinda, you know, afraid that he’d still be there, running the show, and that I’d—“ He raised his hands, palms up as if unable to find the words. “I’d be caught between my old life and now. But it wasn’t so bad, seeing all those guys. Some of ‘em sad, but trying. Some of them you know’ll never make it off the streets cause they’re too fucked up, and some of them—“

“Were you.”

“Yeah. The Dining Room was a stop along the way, and they helped me. One day, Penworthy passed along that the cab company needed drivers—“

“So you got a job.”

“And I met Huggy there.” Starsky shook his head at Hutch’s unasked question. “He wasn’t eating. He worked at this restaurant down the street that used to give the Dining Room left over stuff. Mostly bread and old carrots, stuff like that, but Penworthy didn’t ever have a decent budget for enough food.”

“Now how would you know that?” 

“I asked.” Starsky’s mood seemed far lighter, less burdened by past sadness. “Figured I should give back somehow. As a cabbie, I met a lot of people. Sometimes important people. You can put a bug in the right city council person’s ear.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hutch grinned. “They gave you a boost and you gave them one.”

“I guess so.” Starsky got out, standing in the misty rain until Hutch had hurried to the relative shelter of the door before locking the car. “A couple of the men tonight…“

“The one you gave two pieces of pie.” Hutch nodded, leading the way up the stairs. “Struck a chord?”

“Yeah.” Starsky took a deep breath, ducking his head when he stood on the last step before the landing.

Hutch pretended to fumble with his house key to give Starsky a moment. He’d seen the glint of tears in those blue eyes. 

“Let’s do that again, Hutch,” Starsky muttered. “Give them a boost.”

“Don’t have to twist my arm.” Hutch swung open the door, hoping his surprise would banish the rest of Starsky’s blues. 

“Hey!” Starsky cried, walking into the decorated room. “You took my advice.”

“Advice?” Hutch snorted. “More like demands.” Still, he liked the effect, particularly the red and gold candles in the window. Starsky’s presence in his life had helped banish his own tendency toward annual holiday blues. He’d stopped complaining so much about euphoric sentimentalism and begun to embrace the hope and joy of Christmas. He’d even gone into a church a couple weeks ago, to see the children of the congregation light the Advent wreath candles. 

More than anything, though, he wanted to celebrate his friendship with Starsky. That was the gift that kept on giving, even if Starsky did demand he buy a Christmas tree, ornaments, and holiday food.

“I only draped the tree with a garland and lights,” Hutch said, waving a hand at the pile of ornaments beside the evergreen. “I figured you’d…”

Starsky didn’t have to be told. He was already lifting red and blue balls out of the box with the delight of a six-year-old. “Hutch, these are terrific! Did you get the candy canes? And maybe some popcorn to string?”

“Let me heat up the hot chocolate and find the bottle of peppermint schnapps you hid so obviously in my cupboard.” Hutch laughed, rooting in the kitchen for milk, chocolate powder, and a pot. “Had enough of mashed potatoes and turkey for the year. Huggy’s bringing over ham and mac and cheese for dinner.”

“Yeah?” Starsky hung two balls onto a branch and added the slightly demented Santa he’d given Hutch for Christmas the year before. “As long as there’s something for dessert.”

“After spiked hot chocolate, you still want dessert?” Hutch rolled his eyes, but it was only for effect. This was what made him happy; making Starsky happy. It was going to be a great Christmas Eve. And in the morning, they’d still be together, cruising the streets of Bay City, watching for holiday criminals. 

“Hutch!” Starsky groaned, placing a gold ball onto the tree next to the little Matchbox red Torino that Hutch had given him last Christmas. “Gotta have cookies. And pie. It’s Christmas!”

Didn’t matter that the Jewish elf wasn’t raised to believe that Jesus was born on December 25th, it was celebrating the pure love and optimism for new life that counted. Something Starsky celebrated 365 days of the year.

“You’re in luck, then.” Hutch hauled out the box his sister had sent after her two daughters made cookies. “All the gingerbread cops you can eat.”

“Merry Christmas, Hutch!” Starsky declared, selecting the cookie policeman with the most icing decorations, including m&m’s for buttons. 

“Merry Christmas right back at you,” Hutch said, truly joyful.

FIN


End file.
